The Simple Sacred

Lessons of the Trail

2011-07-14T08:29:00.000-07:00

When I was ten years old, I got the one and only spanking of my life and I still blame David Cook for that. He was at my house when we realized his mom was calling and she must have been hollering for a bit, because she did not sound pleased. Well, I figured we’d be twenty years old before he ever got his shoes tied, so I raced over barefoot to let his mom know that he’d be right home. Much to my shock and utter dismay, this “good deed” was promptly rewarded upon my return by a firm sting to my behind. In front of company, no less! The pain passed quickly, but I about died of shame. And after that, I made it a point to wear shoes while the rest of the kids on Diaper Alley romped around barefoot.

So you see, it’s really a miracle that I haven’t taken up running naked sooner. No, this is not extreme rebellion or even an extreme sport (although there are clothing optional races and that, quite frankly is not a race I want to see, let alone participate in). Running “naked” is just another way of saying “barefoot”. Still, for the first couple of weeks I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was doing something really indecent. Something deserving of no less than an old fashioned whoopin’. (Or a hypodermic needle in the foot.)

Let me say right off the bat that I am not writing this to make a case for barefoot running or even minimalist running. (Or to put the blame on my mom – this is after all DAVID's fault). I haven’t been running barefoot long and there are enough people out there who really know their stuff and don’t need me screwing up the facts. Arguably, I may even be disqualified from the “purist” barefoot community because I sometimes like to run on these Northern Michigan trails in “barefoot” shoes. (No – I’m not talking about Vibrams FiveFingers, the ones with toes, although I’d like to try those. And yes, this whole idea is fraught with contradictions… “five fingers” and “barefoot shoes”… but again, I’m not here to get into all that.)

All I am saying is that barefoot running/minimalist running seems to suit me for a whole lot of reasons, but one of the main reasons is it jibes with my running goal.

“What are you training for?”

I began to hear that question a lot as people became aware of the distances I was logging while running. It’s a fair question. Seems you can’t toss a rock on the VASA without hitting someone with a goal. I imagine that it is very gratifying to have the discipline to work hard to accomplish a running goal. To cross that finish line. I admire people who do it. They inspire me and I'd like to do it myself someday. The truth is I do have a goal and it is this… to run.

Today on the trail I’m breathing in the joy of meeting my goal. I run without pain. Better yet, I run without the burden of expectation and it frees my soul to play. I am ten years old and back at Diaper Alley, romping around without fear of reprimand. (OK – some people make it their goal to reprimand barefoot runners, but let’s ignore them!)

Barefoot running has given me this gift. It may even let me forgive David.

A Word About The Shoes!
I must say I LOVE these! I’ve dubbed my New Balance Minimus WT10’s – my very own “Nimbus 2000’s” just in time for HP7P2 this week! (I’m not a qualified reviewer - for those people I might suggest Jason Robillard's site www.barefootrunninguniversity.com or Angie Bee www.barefootangiebee.com)

44

2011-03-16T06:50:00.000-07:00

“be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Live the questions now. Perhaps over all there is a great motherhood, as common longing.” -Rilke

When I hit 40, a strange anomaly took place. I began to measure my age in relation to where my mom was at my age in relation to me. If that is as confusing as I think it is, I’ll try to clarify.

The day I turned 40, I found myself thinking, “I am the same age as my mom was when she gave birth to me!” I imagined myself as her. I imagined the vitality of a life within me. Somehow this made me feel younger.

Today, as I near 44, (it’s just two days away) I am thinking, “I am the same age as my mom was when I was four years old.” Again, I imagine myself as her. I imagine dealing with a four year old. I imagine going insane. Somehow this makes me feel older.

My friend Bryan recently handed me a memoir to read. It’s about a woman who gets pregnant at age 44. He thought I might enjoy it. I am thinking he might enjoy a memoir for his birthday; the one about the man who loses his penis at age 36. It’s the least I can do for a friend.

However, I did read the book. Consumed it really. I imagined myself as her. I imagined myself pregnant at 44. I imagined not being able to go through with it. I imagined not being able to not go through with it. Somehow this makes me feel neither young nor old, but perhaps a bit wiser.

There’s something strangely paradoxical about putting myself in my mother’s shoes though. It’s both selfless and selfish. Aware and oblivious. Spiritual and temporal. It’s all about her, but it’s all about me. I am her. She is me.

But what of us?

We are not solely defined by our ability to procreate yet procreating is the definitive answer to our existence. The absolute. Without it, we are nothing. I am nothing. No “Happy Birthday to you!”, or even “Average Birthday to you!”

Everyone is born.

Everyone dies.

The question is… how will we choose to live?

When Doves Cry

2011-03-08T17:12:00.000-08:00

I stand with arms buried deep in the heat of freshly laundered cotton.

Snap. Fold. Stack.

Drumming a domestic rhythm against the long strains of winter; my soliloquy to spring. A soft coo from outside the laundry room window slips into this cadence; accent on the upbeat. It fits the morning ensemble the way things long-anticipated and then forgotten often do.

Understated. Delicate. Orderly.

I’ve been waiting a long time for this.

Relatively speaking.

dig if u will the picture...

February 14th, 2011 - My husband and I put up a platform bird-feeder. I want to draw in doves. I want to absorb their haunting cry. I try to imagine it. Almost crave it. I wonder what it sounds like.

February 23rd, 2011 - I trudge through snow to the middle of the yard and refill what only finches have consumed. I peer at the trees. At the sky. A song is in my head. “How can u just leave me standing, alone in a world that’s so cold? Maybe I’m just 2 demanding…”

“Maybe I’m just like my father but doves_ will_ come, damn-it-anyway!” I scream.

Is this what it sounds like?

It's been a long winter.

February 28th, 2011 - I notice a pair of doves perched in the oak at the edge of the yard, striking curious poses. They do this for about an hour and finally fly away. This is the last I see of them. Maybe they heard me screaming. (Even doves have pride.)

I give up.

Until this morning.

Perhaps they feel the heat between me and laundry and rhythm and forgetting. Perhaps they sense the heat of the tears that burn at the edge of my vision at the sudden awareness to their cry.

"Darling don't cry."

But there they are on the platform, as if they have always belonged to this place, eating their fill.

Lyrics (used throughout) from “When Doves Cry” by Prince

Setting Sun Over Michigan in Three Acts

2011-02-17T19:46:00.000-08:00

One sun setting on an icy planet. One sun setting the stage for ‘Setting Sun Over Michigan in Three Acts'. With the days growing longer, we emerged from our dormant shells to document this single event; the waning light hitting our pods at the slightest of intervals, husks bursting forth to push people into the light all over the state. The photographic evidence held all the mystery of an unexplained occurrence and captured attention on everyone’s favorite social network. "Did you see it?" "Here in Saugatuck we did!" And in Traverse City. And from my sister at the edge of no man’s land on the northern shores of Lake Superior (where I am sure she can see the North Pole from her house!). It appeared in the sky like a beacon! Like a sign! Like a promise! “Spring forward” is near. And it’s more than something to rob an hour of repose or make everyone late for church some Sunday morning in the not too distant future. Though we lie dormant, we are still hurling through space, pressing forward into the next season, earth peeling back layers of dark matter to break through to light; light giving birth to life.

Act 1: Saugatuck Sunset courtesy of Clay Lubber - 2/13/11

Act 2: Traverse City Sunset courtesy of Angela Josephine - 2/13/11

Act 3: Copper Bay Sunset courtesy of Gina Louis-Mercier - 2/13/11

To Call My Own

2011-01-17T19:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve been in the process of giving birth to a home recording studio for the past two weeks but I have to admit that it has not been the liberating and fulfilling journey hoped for. Instead, it has been a series of intense contractions and unflattering pushes with lulls to consider it all. I’ve sent back one breakout box in favor of another which necessitated uninstalling software that I’ll only have to reinstall in 3 days time when the new box gets here. My monitors are too large and the room is too small. There’s something oozing from the concrete under the carpeting and I think whoever chose fire engine red for the walls a few years back must be a crazy woman. (Or she will be shortly.) When this baby arrives however, you can bet I’ll be handing out cigars and passing around photos. If I can just survive the labor! I’m not demanding perfection. I’m just hoping for a healthy, happy sacred space to call my own.

That Kind of Day

2011-01-12T13:38:00.000-08:00

“I have found that in the simple act of living with hope… the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious.” – Elizabeth Edwards

I’ve got a big pot of chili bubbling away on the stove with just the right amount of two favorite secret ingredients to light up my mouth in just the right way because… it’s that kind of day. When I was at the grocery store picking up the ingredients for the chili, a woman mopping the floor kicked the bucket (literally) and declared, “It’s that kind of day!” And I got an email from a friend that said, “What started off as a beautiful morning has turned into the worst possible night." In other words… “It’s that kind of day.”

That beautiful morning, Sandy and her family gathered to lay to rest her sister Brenda, finding closure in the fast and furious disease that took her life. That would have been one kind of day. Except for the arrival of the news that Brenda's ex-husband had died unexpectedly that very same evening. This comes on the heels of a long chain of loss this family has suffered over the past year. "That kind of day?!" I can hear Sandy snort right about now, “How about ‘That kind of YEAR!’” I assure you this is not the ranting of a bitter heart but the dry sarcasm of a woman who missed her calling on SNL. Like when she imagined Brenda confronting her ex ‘up there’…“What the HELL are YOU doing here?! Those kids need you!” I marvel at her sense of humor in the thick of all this crap. She hasn’t lost hope in the face of ‘that kind of day’. Repetitively.

This is where I might be tempted to trumpet some trite charge like “Carpe Diem!”. However, the day has been seized, squeezed, spilled and mopped up again. Instead I am just going to agree. It IS ‘that kind of day’. For me with my pot of chili. For Sandy with all that loss. Even for the lady with the mop.

Alive and Well

2011-01-10T14:54:00.000-08:00

I don’t care if anyone reads this. What I care about is making sure I write. To hold myself accountable to the simple resolution to be present and aware in my life. To see God in the ordinary. To wake into the sacred day and merge with its sacred pulse. Somehow setting this blog up some time ago set me off balance by the sheer expectation of it. What if I don’t have anything to write? What if the well runs dry and I’m left with a dusty cup and nothing to offer? Well clang, clang… welcome to the inner ramblings of the self-fulfilling prophetess. I’m done rambling and am just going to write, which at times may be nothing more than rambling, but it’s better than nothing. It is something - to show up for my day and acknowledge that the Sacred is there whether I see it or not. So read if you want or not. I’ll be writing regardless, clanging my pen against the cup that overflows and groping for that pulse when it is faint; declaring the Sacred alive and well each time.

Offering - A Poem

2010-06-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

by Angela Josephine
(In awareness for the 40,000+ women and children who are victim to human trafficking during the 2010 World Cup)

LISTEN TO OFFERING
click PLAY under title of poem on Reverb Nation page

will heaven rend
will thunder split
this haze of days
my blood
my sweat
your cheer
your hand
raised up in praise
holey voices
wholly raised
a call
the carnal incarnate
your cheer
your hand
my blood
my sweat
our sacrifice
on altar’s bed
your cheer
my blood
your hand
my sweat
holy voices
wholly met?

Fighting Bees

2009-10-14T19:03:00.000-07:00

“When I hear a man preach, I like to see him act as if he were fighting bees.” – Abraham Lincoln

“I’m thinking about raising honey bees.”

Airing a statement like that in front of my teenage sons is like rolling out a field of clover to the hive after a long winter. The buzzing begins immediately.

“Don’t you have to actually like being around bees to do that?”

I feel the sting of my youngest son’s unbelief. It is no secret that a bee in my personal space is a sure catalyst for some mad dashing and theatrical vocalizing. I tell him it is all about overcoming my fears (while silently registering the added benefit of not reacting like a nutcase).

“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid of bees if someone (implying his older brother) hadn’t thrown me in a nest when I was in 6th grade!”

With this subtle adjustment, the direction of their flight changes and they are off to fields of rambunctious forget-me-nots… those harrowing accounts of near death experiences and previous conquests that become legend amongst brothers. This fragrant meadow expands with each new visit and I am left feeling a bit like Horton in peril of losing his Whos in all that fluff. Eventually though, their uncanny navigation skills bring them back to the original issue at hand.

“I’d be so afraid that I’d get Africanized bees!” the older brother rants. “They are so crazy.”

Suddenly, I have a clear recollection of a documentary on killer bees that I saw as a child. An awareness as to the source of my phobia begins to emerge.

“They aren’t in Michigan!” the youngest challenges.

“They are in the United States! How do you know they won’t come to Michigan?”

The youngest hovers, not totally sure that he wants to sink his mandibles into this juicy new detail.

“What? You can’t just run away?”

“No - they just decide they don’t like you, attack and sting until you are dead!”

It takes only a split second, but the youngest strikes with lightning-like precision.

“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid. I’d just punch them… like this!” and with dramatic flair he swings his fist into the air...

just as a real-live bee flies through his personal space...

in the middle of our kitchen.

Pause.

“Like that!”

We all explode into laughter.

(There is a moral to this story that I have in mind. Any guesses? HINT: The moral of this story (like the title) is taken from a quote by another previous president.)

His and Hers

2009-08-04T07:21:00.000-07:00

There are two chairs by the side of the road. Abandoned partners. His and Hers.

This is a scene right out of Pixar’s animated movie UP, only the chairs have been lifted from Paradise Falls and set down here at the edge of 5 Mile Road. I am looking for balloons caught in the trees – colorful gumballs disappearing into the stratosphere, a chubby Wilderness Explorer named Russell hiding beneath the porch or a rare bird named Kevin following me.

This lonely upholstered pair is “For Sale” and I wonder what memories come with them. Did they seat a couple who dreamed of going places never realized? Or, are the chairs extra baggage – being sold to fund the next big adventure. Maybe this is about survival in these poor economic times. Or perhaps, they just got old. (The chairs that is.)

We have an empty nest facing us in this next month or so and I wonder about the chairs in our home. They have wide, soft memories. They have seated us well in this great adventure. We could be like Carl, the balloon salesman in the film. It could take a court order and the lift of 10,000 helium balloons to get us off our behinds.

Or… we could avoid all the fuss of talking Dobermans in biplanes (sorry, you’ll have to see the movie for that). We could make a choice now to set those chairs purposefully… atop our own Paradise Falls… to serve as our Ebenezer as we move on to the next leg in this big adventure.

“The word "Ebenezer" comes from Hebrew and is actually two words pronounced together: Even Haazer. Written in Hebrew it looks like this:

It is usually transliterated as a proper name by dropping the definite article (Ha) from the Hebrew word for "help" (Ezer) and putting it together with the Hebrew word for "stone" (Even) to create: "Ebenezer." The etymological roots of the word, thus defined, should demonstrate that an "Ebenezer" is, literally, a "Stone of Help."

Literally speaking, an Ebenezer is a "stone of help," or a reminder of God’s Real, Holy Presence and Divine aid. Spiritually and theologically speaking, an Ebenezer can be nearly anything that reminds us of God’s presence and help…” - Dr. Gregory S. Neal

Our Night Sky

2009-06-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

“The reason why the universe is eternal is that it does not live for itself; it gives life to others as it transforms”
- Lao Tzu

This past week we celebrated our son’s graduation from high school with an open house gala. I spent hours gathering photos for the memory boards. As I charted his life thus far in images, certain aspects of his personality gravitated toward each other and shone like bright constellations. Here was Hercules, strong-willed and determined, from scaling fences at age two to winning the “Iron Man” award at age seventeen. There the Chamaeleon - from pirate to cowgirl to goodwill hunter to prom king – creative and adaptable.

I did not get a chance to leisurely observe the completed boards until this week. And, like gazing up at the Milky Way on a clear night, I was overcome. This galaxy known as 'son' pulses like a quasar and what a mystery and privilege it is to be considered Co-creator.

Shoes

2009-06-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve come into the house momentarily blind from running in the blazing sun. I am quick to kick these sweaty shoes into a dark rectangle otherwise known as the hall closet. The Asics are still airborne when I realize I have to go back outside and fill the bird feeders. Feeling around with feet only, I slip on a pair of my clogs and head out the door.

Back in the light of day, I am startled to find very masculine dress shoes awkwardly clinging to my feminine feet. (I thought they felt a little loose!)

I’m wearing someone else’s shoes and wonder if I would have stepped into them as quickly and genuinely with open eyes.

Bread and Wine

2009-06-04T20:18:00.001-07:00

I am in town and hungry. Though the dulling edge of spring air slices its way through layers of sunlight, I am not about to miss this opportunity for a helping no matter how poorly served. In fact, I’ll take 2nds... and maybe 3rds, thank you very much!

That is how I find myself here, at an outdoor table by the river. That I am the only one on the patio is more perplexing. Has the absence of sun all these long winter months made for a slow thawing of the heart? I can relate, but am quick to forgive on account of the fact that I don’t want to miss a day of it. I think the people inside are missing out.

“Are you O.K. way over here on your own?”

This question from the server is innocent enough, but unsheathes a double-edged sword. Perhaps I am missing out as well.

She sets the food in front of me. My portion of sunlight arrives, illuminating the bread and wine.

“… the holy meal, epitomized in the bread and wine shared by Abraham and Melchizedek… this primal meal wasn’t intended as an expression of exclusion… It was a meal of peace and fellowship, bringing together two different people with their different religious traditions. The sacred meal in this light becomes a celebration of hospitality, of community, of inclusion, and of reconciliation.”
- Finding Our Way Again, Brian McLaren

New Life

2009-06-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

We have a cardinal couple nesting in our yard this spring. The cedar tree has come alive with the sweet chirping of hatchlings. We've watched mom and dad dart to and fro gathering food, defending the nest and tending their young.

This evening, I went out to prop up an unruly Wisteria and came face to face with this little one perched in the tangle of vines, appearing just as unruly and bold. He's caught in the awkward “in-between” - that of home within reach and moving on into the wide, wild world. So familiar, so like a young man I know.

Henry and the Poison Puddle

2009-05-28T14:23:00.000-07:00

“Small relics of the mouldering mass were left,
at once of substance as of form bereft;
dissolved the whole in liquid poison ran,
and to a nauseous pool shrunk the man.”
Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy’ as translated by Henry (Wadsworth Longfellow)

photo by Christy Berghoef

Henry introduced me to the poison puddle. I had barely arrived at Bryan and Christy’s before his small hand gently but firmly grasped mine, guiding me to the back porch amid emphatic exclamations of “I have to SHOW you something!” There was no question that Henry's brother Winston, like Aaron to Moses of old, would accompany his brother in case he suddenly was at a loss for words. Somehow I doubted that would happen, assured that between the two of them I would get a complete and thorough introduction to the ‘SOMETHING’.

I waited patiently while the brothers donned the appropriate garments for the ritual of entering the sacred tent of Northern Michigan drizzle; first zipping then buckling up their rain slickers and smartly sliding small feet into rubber clogs to ground their tiny bodies to the earth in the event of a lightning strike. I felt self-consciously under dressed and unprepared as I pulled the hood of my wool sweater over my head and slogged out into this mystery in leather sandals. Henry, however, kept my hand firmly in his and guided me along the path, through the garage and into the drive in the back of the house.

There it was. The poison puddle.

We all squatted down, heads together in fascination at the evil slick of silver-gray that ominously snaked its way through the water.

“It’s oil! It’s poison!! Don’t TOUCH it!!!”

A command that both threatens and invites.

We looked long and hard. We considered it carefully. And we all agreed. We would avoid that puddle.

photo by Christy Berghoef

With the understanding of that boundary out of the way, we were free to explore the alleyway. I wisely took my sandals off and rolled up my pant legs in anticipation of some serious puddle jumping. We spent the next ten minutes relishing the gift of rain and praising its visceral qualities with our feet.

While the boys were still caught up in the moment, I apologized that my fun had to end and turned back to the garage. I had gone no more than 5 feet when the laughter stopped and the panic-stricken voice of Henry (followed by Winston’s) gave me quite a start!

“ANGELA! THE POISON!! STOP!!!”

There I was, about to put my bare foot right IN the poison puddle and just as suddenly, Henry was at my side – his hand in mine again.

Disaster averted.

Great relief flooded us all and we turned back to the house together.

I’ve been thinking about that puddle. There is something both terrible and fascinating about it. I think Henry and Winston get this and that is why they are wise to go out in pairs and not leave each other alone. I think they are wise because inside us all is the desire to test that poison puddle. Maybe it is on a day when the sun starts to shine again and that icy gray slick pulses like a rainbow. Maybe it is inadvertent – we are just going along unaware and step directly into it.

That’s why we need our Henrys and Winstons. We need to stick together. We need to stare in fascination and horror into the poison puddle together, to know it through and through so that we become convinced of its lethal dose on sight alone. It is this awareness that then provokes us to virtually throw ourselves in the path of a brother or sister who is about to take the plunge.

As a final note, I went out running today. It’s still drizzling. There are still puddles. This became painfully evident as I was rudely baptized with mud by a passing car. Just as I was about to curse the driver, I thought of Henry and the poison puddle. Maybe this dousing wasn’t malicious. Maybe people are mostly driving through life with no awareness of the puddles around them. Maybe they are waiting for their Henry… to point them out… to step in their place… and then… to lovingly take them by the hand and guide them home.

(Photos courtesy of Christy Berghoef. Visit her site for photo cards and much more... www.rawinspiration.etsy.com)

My Cup of Tea

2008-05-14T06:33:00.000-07:00

There is a legend that says the Chinese Emperor Shen Nung, the Divine Cultivator, discovered tea accidentally when he was boiling water under the shade of a wild tea tree. A few of the leaves dropped into his pot, tinting the water and he drank the resulting infusion. Immediately, he was overwhelmed with a sense of well-being. If only it were that easy.

On Sunday, our pastor prayed for a person facing a difficult doctor’s appointment. In his prayer he said, “Lord, that is an appointment that none of us would want to be called to, but it’s an appointment You may call us to.” At that moment in prayer, I had an appointment with Lectio Divina.

Lectio Divina is a very ancient art practiced by Christians. It is a slow, contemplative praying of the Scriptures which enables the Bible, the Word of God, to become a means of union with God – not unlike brewing tea. The same excerpt from scripture steeps several times in the vessel of the heart. The Holy Spirit then draws forth the flavor of one particular word or phrase to speak directly into the life of an individual. Its true intent is to cultivate the ability to drink deeply of the cup of Christ and to hear “with the ear of our hearts.” On Sunday morning, I was surprised to find that I am not totally deaf.

You see, there has been something collecting in my heart over the past few months. The first bits settled when my sister’s cancer returned. Further deposits were made with each new challenge – a blood transfusion here, a debilitating fever there – a heap of dried matter littering the chambers. My own set of health issues compounded the effect and finally, the news of our precious 8-year-old niece’s terminal illness threatened to stop it up for good.

Yet something happened that morning. Pure, hot truth poured into me, the words “…it’s an appointment You may call us to” steeping the bits slowly. That which had collected in the vessel of my heart, the bitter and potentially lethal remnants, began to infuse the grace I was experiencing with a particular quality. God was brewing a tea with the tender leafs of my suffering and the sufferings of those around me. Would I trust Him with it?

A traditional tea master is implicitly trusted with the fine art of nurturing a tea plant. This is quite an involved task especially because all tea comes from one kind of plant.* A master knows when to pluck and when to wither. A master knows that differences in climate, soil, temperature and moisture will yield very different, yet equally significant teas. Without the Master, my own precious harvest threatens to become dry dust or an over-steeped sludge served up in the cup of a broken world. Or maybe even worse, a saccharin-laden mixture that covers up the honest and full flavor of the cup that is mine.

Jesus had a cup placed before Him. He never asked for a different cup – only that He would not have to drink the dregs. "Abba, Father," he said, "everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what You will." Because of His trust in the Tea Master, we are able to experience the full flavor of grace.

We have a new teahouse in Traverse City. It is called Serenity and is located on Front Street across from the State Theater. You can choose to sit cross-legged in the sunlit windowsill, slowly sipping away at an iced drink while watching the activity on Front Street (this is the favored perch of the teen-aged clientele). Or you may choose to curl up on a comfy sofa with a steaming cup while reading a book on the history of tea making. The folks at Serenity know that there are as many ways of appreciating tea as there are cultures to appreciate it.

I’m learning to appreciate tea. I watch the light refracting through the infused water and think of the very sunlight that withered the leaf. I remind myself to breath in the aroma that holds all knowledge of its origin. I let my tongue roll over the flavor, tasting each nuance of the soil it was nurtured in. I let the warmth pour through me. I am learning to appreciate that the hardships endured and the tender nurturing received lend character and, in the hands of the Master, are one in the same.

Wars have been fought over tea. Ceremonies celebrate it. So precious was the secret of tea in China that England sent spies into the country to attempt to discover the secret of their process. The truth is there is still a war being fought over tea. It wants to do away with the ceremony and steal the secret. It does not want us to know how precious we are to the Tea Master and that every day He is calling us to an appointment…

“Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, and they all drank from it.”

What is your cup of tea?

*( All true tea comes from the same type of plant, an Asian evergreen known as Camellia sinensis. Herbals are not technically teas, but Tisanes.)